Q On a Plane
by CatsbytheGreat
Summary: M sends Q overseas. Q doesn't like flying.


The first time Q flies for MI6, it's only out of absolute necessity. He's told them time and again—on his application, during his interview, in passing on the way to the bathroom, through notes on M's desk—that he hates flying. Absolutely despises it. There is far too much that can go wrong on a plane, and Q doesn't want to be there when it does.

Besides, why would anyone like being trapped in a huge metal tube, strapped into a small chair, suspended in the air by the power of science NOT completely in control of computers and very susceptible to human error.

Q has seen those shows about aircraft disasters. Sure, cars and boats and trains may have accidents more frequently, but in planes there's less of a chance of surviving. Q may be a secret agent but he's not going to survive a fall from 37,000 feet no matter how many government agencies he can destroy from his computer.

The first time MI6 puts him on a plane he protests. "Can't I take a train?" he asks M, who shakes his head.

"There are no trains from London to Canada, unfortunately," M tells him.

"A boat, then."

"We need you there tomorrow, not in a week."

Which is why Q ends up in Heathrow airport, pacing around the terminal and wondering just how illegal taking tranquilizers normally used during surgery would be to get through this.

The worst part is, there's no internet on the plane. And his computer battery won't last the full 12+ hour flight to Vancouver.

And he curses M and everyone else because why does it have to be Vancouver anyway? That's practically on the other side of the world. Perhaps he could handle a two hour flight to Amsterdam, or something, but this is simply ridiculous. M says that someone in Vancouver has an important computer program that needs to be disabled manually.

"Send Bond," Q told him when the issue first came up.

"Bond would shoot at it. Contrary to popular believe we don't aim to end our missions in explosions."

Q doesn't get his tranquilizers, but he does pick up an issue of National Geographic and concentrates on the pretty pictures. Photography was never his area, but he can appreciate art. He likes to be cultured.

Unlike some secret agents, who just like to shoot things.

Q hopes, at least, that M sprung for a good seat, whatever a good seat equates to on an international flight. The gate is full of other people, and the person at the desk announces that this will be a full flight, and Q thinks, just my luck.

One day he will invent a bubble. A personal bubble that will surround him so that no one can get inside, and should a plane ever explode in the sky, he will float safely to the ground.

Of course, that is the only idiotic idea Q has ever come up with, but one can dream.

Q finds himself in the middle seat of the middle section of the plane, and nearly has a panic attack when two children sit on either side of him. They're both boys; one looks to be five, and the other around nine.

Q dials his phone. M picks up on the second ring.

"Why did you put me in the worst seat possible?" he hisses into the phone.

"It was extremely last minute," M tells him. "Just be thankful you're not next to the bathroom."

"I am a secret agent, M, I shouldn't have to deal with this," Q snaps. "I bet you don't put Bond in-"

M hangs up.

Q curses and the two boys look at him, wide-eyed.

It's going to be a long flight.

* * *

Approximately three hours in, Q has refused to eat the weird meat blob that the flight attendants called "dinner" and there's a terrible movie playing on the overhead, because for some reason this plane isn't equipped with seat-back screens like Q thought it would be. Q instead nibbles on some bread and orders a cup of wine (not glass, a cup, and plastic) to calm his nerves, and he leans back and tries to fall asleep. The whirring of the plane engine is insufferably loud, but he manages to nearly get to sleep when he feels a tug on his sweater.

"Please don't do that," Q mutters without opening his eyes.

"Sir," a tiny voice says.

Q opens his eyes and finds the boys staring at him. The younger boy holds up a toy car and says, "Play?"

"No," Q says. "Go find your parents and play with them."

"They're in the back," the elder boy tells him. "We're bored."

"I can't help you."

"Can I try on your glasses?"

"No."

"I want my mummy," the younger boy whines.

"I can't help you with that, either," Q says, feeling a headache coming on.

"Are we there yet?" the older boy asks.

"For god's sake, stop asking me!"

The younger boy bursts into tears.

Q does not know many children, so he pats this one awkwardly on the back and says stupid things like "Sorry, I didn't mean it" (he did) and "It'll be okay" and "You'll see your parents eventually." When the boy doesn't stop crying and people begin to stare, Q adds, "I'll play with you."

The young boy stops crying instantly, and Q curses himself.

They play race cars on the dining tray. Q never wins, and for some reason this bothers him more than it should. He can write programs that can shut down the United States CIA in five minutes flat but he can't win a fake car race against two little kids underneath the age of ten.

Six hours into the flight Q finds himself pillow to both boys, and is tempted to get his computer and start working on programs to ease his mind; the wine is wearing off, and the plane is strangely loud.

However, if he so much as twitches the boys begin to stir, and he doesn't want to play another three hours of racing cars. Not because he keeps losing, mind, but because a grown secret agent does not play cars with little boys, especially not in public.

Q forces himself to sit up ramrod-straight and still, which is uncomfortable. The screen above him marks the plane's progress in small jumps, five-minute intervals that Q believes the airline designed to torture people like him. 6 hours left, 5 hours and 55 minutes left, 5 hours and 45 minutes left, 5 hours and 54 minutes left, and so on.

Estimated arrival time: Fuck you.

Q falls asleep, and he wakes up cramped and his shoulders are damp because certain children decided to drool on him for the remaining six hours of the flight. The plane lands, and luckily the children are too tired themselves to bother him in the interval of time between waking and landing, but Q doesn't move anyway just in case his movement alerts them to his presence.

Vancouver has a beautiful airport, and Q is tempted to kiss the ground once he steps out of the plane, muscles screaming in protest, and into the terminal. People rush around, mostly looking rushed, though some look excited.

Q runs a hand through his hair, which sticks up in messy tufts, pushes his glasses up his nose, and heads for baggage claim, where M has arranged a car to pick him up.

As he exits the airport he realizes: there is a flight back. And knowing M, his seat will not be first class.

M does like to fuck with people. It's probably the only satisfaction he gets from his job.

Q promises to fill M's computer with annoying viruses that play Gangnam Style every time he opens an internet page when he gets back.


End file.
